


Dreaming Down Walls

by kahlannightwing



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale makes a move, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley's pov, First Kiss, Happy Ending, M/M, Tissue Warning, i'm SOFT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 06:43:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kahlannightwing/pseuds/kahlannightwing
Summary: For #gofanexchange 2019, a gift for a special Tumblr user sun-glasses-at-night. Based on the prompt: It is post-Armageddon’t, Aziraphale and Crowley decide to slide into another round of drinks back at the shop after visiting the Ritz. They end up discussing the body swap and recent days in more detail, and a tipsy Aziraphale mentions the “boyfriend in the dark glasses” comment.From there, things go into an unexpected direction that leaves Crowley in an untenable situation. Will he take the chance at a second Fall?





	Dreaming Down Walls

**Author's Note:**

> This started out with the idea of 'oh, I'll make this cute and funny and sweet' and ended with 'where did all these feels come from and what do I do with them?' The answer was to make the entire piece soft.
> 
> Special thanks to pandarson for betaing the fic and making sure it was really, really, extra soft. Hope you enjoy this, sun-glasses-at-night. I had a great time writing it for you!

"Beel-Beelzabub looked so startled! Eyes wide and mouth hanging open. I could have thrown a cherry in her mouth. I think she would have choked on it." Aziraphale leaned back, drunken laughter interspersed between the words.

Crowley's hand went to the back of the couch, slapping it as he fought to keep the expensive wine in his mouth. Aziraphale's laughter didn't help the struggle. The glass went to the side, red liquid perilously close to the rim. One of his legs kicked out in front of him, as if he could filter the amusement out that direction.

After the Ritz, they had walked to Aziraphale's shop, drunk off expensive champagne and neither wanting to sober so soon after a horrendously stressful week. Walking side by side, their arms hanging loosely between each other, they had kept the several inches of distance that was their habit.

Crowley's hand had ached the entire trip to the shop. Even after settling on the couch and going through two bottles of red wine, it had pulsed, reprimanding him for not taking the risk of clasping the angel's hand.

Swallowing with an effort, he let out a huff of amused air. "Beelzebub is a bland bastard!" He propped his feet on the couch's cushion, splaying on it with legs open. "Tell me...tell me again what you said to them. The part about them finding out soon."

"I said-I said, 'So, you're probably thinking, "If he can do this, I wonder what else he can do?" And very, very soon, you're all going to get the chance to-to find out," he trailed off into laughter again, leaning back in his chair with the lamplight shining through his hair.

It was useless not to stare, to be caught in the way his eyes shone, his lips spread open and inviting. His fingers moved erratically, emphasizing a point that Crowley didn't hear because his golden eyes were unblinking on him.

Six thousand years was nothing compared to the time spent as Armageddon approached. It had been frantic, messy, painful, and nothing close to any of their other exploits. Those previous times had always been tinged with sorrow, with arguments yelled, insults tossed in a way only those who know how to truly hurt someone can hurl.

Crowley knew he had pushed. Screamed at the angel and begged him to give up what he knew was a charade. After disposing of Ligur and Hastur, he'd driven to the shop with the plan that he'd convince him one last time. He still remembered the sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach as the phone had gone unrung, as the burning shop came into view, and he'd run inside and screamed.

"-and that's when Uriel punched me," Aziraphale exclaimed.

"She what?" His legs moved, thumping down on the carpet as the question cut sharply between them.

Aziraphale stuttered to a stop, blue eyes wide in incomprehension. "Er, well, she punched me." The angel's hands fiddled and circled the glass of wine he held. "In the gut. I've most definitely felt worse than that, my dear." He fumbled with the glass as it began to tip out of his hand. A bit of wine spilled on the carpet and Aziraphale made a noise of distress.

Golden eyes flicked to the spot on the carpet before Aziraphale miracled it away, brows slanting downward as his lips pursed. The euphoria Crowley had felt since switching bodies back and dining at the Ritz had begun to fade. "What else happened?" His words dipped low and dark as he felt anger stir like a fire in his belly.

That anger mirrored the burn from his trip to Heaven. Stark, white, and filled with smiling bureaucracy, he had expected the reception Aziraphale had received in Heaven - he remembered that it was all business and forms in triplicate - but he hadn't expected the way they looked at the angel, the tone of their voices, the hate that seeped out of Gabriel's final words. The anger had almost banked over during his act. He was sure the Hellfire he had spit from his mouth had manifested from inside him instead of outside.

Aziraphale's hand moved to the other holding the wine glass, twisting at the ring on his pinky. As the glass began to slip again, his fingers trailing to his overcoat to rub against a button. "Oh, well, nothing much." He laughed, the sound high and strained. He wasn't meeting Crowley's eyes. "She said, `your boyfriend in the dark glasses won't get you special treatment in Hell,' or some such. Then the trumpet sounded, and they left. I called them bad, bad angels." His smile was hesitant, tremulous.

Crowley hated how small he looked.

He knew he should say something with Aziraphale's shoulders hunched where he sat. Crowley wondered how long he'd been wrapped up in observing all of Aziraphale's little quirks, smiles, laughs, and charms that he hadn't noticed how easily he could diminish.

Aziraphale was waiting for him to react. He rolled his shoulders back, meeting Crowley's dark gaze, steeling himself to react to that reaction. He'd always been doing that for centuries.

Then again, when had Crowley ever reacted in an expected manner?

Crowley smirked, nonchalant as he spread his arms and kicked his legs back onto the far end of the couch to lay back. "So…boyfriend?"

Aziraphale's blue eyes widened, head snapping up to gape, open-mouthed at the demon. "Wha-what?"

Crowley sunk into the couch at the intended distraction, tilting his head back to expose the long line of his neck. He reached a hand to stroke in long, measured lines over his Adam's apple. "Called me your boyfriend. I'm the one in the dark glasses right?"

"Well, yes, erm, you do have dark glasses. You don't always wear them." Aziraphale took another sip of his wine, his expression the picture of innocence.

"Not the point, angel." He gestured at Aziraphale as if about to make a point, and then he let the hand fall and shrugged. The motion was a dismissal. He'd already jumped on a moment that had been light and carefree. He could recognize the tension in the air, realize it was his doing, and pull back before he caused damage.

Crowley shrugged, an explanation for the question found and on his tongue, but it was just as easily discarded. If he tipped things too far in that direction, they might not right themselves this time. "Just curious."

The silence lengthened between them, only broken by Crowley lifting his glass to drain the rest of the wine in it.

"Well, I rather like the concept," came the confident tone across from him.

Crowley choked in the middle of the swallow, jerking his head back down to cough toward the glass. Not spitting wine that time was only because his throat could slide snake-like to capture the liquid "You like-?" The words stuck in his throat, but he could be forgiven for that. He had almost choked.

"I like it, yes. Do you?" he stated, spine straighter in his chair with shoulders squared. His hands were prim and manicured in his lap, the glass of wine set aside in pursuit of putting his intense attention on Crowley.

Crowley narrowed his eyes and glanced to the bottles around them, but he didn't see that any had been refilled to sober the angel up. He was drifting through his own mind, words popping up and rejected in a cycle that left him stammering to fill the quiet. "I...er, I mean, it might be…. It's a bit of a ..."

"Oh, my dear, you're quite flushed. Maybe you should sober up?" He looked much too smug now. There was a slight tilt of his lips on each corner, a steel surety to his gaze that lacked any naivety.

"Shut up," the demon shot out, familiar and easy, lacking any real bite, just general annoyance. "You can't tell me you want to be boyfriends, angel. It's so ..." He waved a hand into the air with no discernible pattern. It was again a dismissal. He didn't know what direction the conversation was being steered anymore. The uncertainty made his legs twitch.

Aziraphale was quick to reply, the smile growing on his face. "Oh no!" He tittered, using a hand to his lips to hold back real laughter. His tone said he was explaining the meaning behind a bit of opera and was finding it humorous that the simplicity of it was being lost. "I mean it seems rather- It doesn't do justice to it, Crowley."

"To...to what? Justice to what, angel?" He knew the dialogue was connected, but he couldn't make sense of it. A flowchart of the conversation floated into his mind: boyfriends, liked the concept, didn't do it justice…. No, it still didn't make sense to Crowley. He didn't want it to make sense.

Had he fallen asleep on the couch, drunk off champagne and wine. He'd had dreams before. The themes were similar. There was Aziraphale, confusion, confessions, and heartbreak.

"Why, it doesn't do justice to how I feel about you, my dear." His blue eyes were intense and unwavering on Crowley. He was drinking in the demon's reaction now, instead of agonizing over it.

Crowley was hot. He reached up to unbutton his collar it and pull it aside. He didn't want to look away from the angel. If this were a dream, there would be tells. If it were a dream, he wanted to remember it when he woke up, even if only for a moment. "How-how you feel? Listen, angel-"

"Oh no, Crowley, I do so need to say this. Will you let me?"

Crowley's teeth clacked shut. The demon held up a hand to ask for a moment. He needed to be sober for the rest of this conversation. He wanted to be clear and conscious. Squinting in concentration, he miracled the alcohol out of his system and back into one of the wine bottles. He waved the hand before lowering it, not moving from his lounge on the sofa.

"Thank you," Aziraphale mouthed. 

Crowley memorized the way the pert lips molded around the words. 

Wiggling his shoulders, Aziraphale planted his hands firmly on his lap and smiled, eyes crinkling. "Okay then, so we've been together a long time, and yes, I can say it now, we've been friends for a long time. No one knows us better than us, definitely not our Ex-Respective Sides.

"I think, my dear, that after all these years even friendship isn't enough to do what I feel justice. After deciding I'm done being Heaven's 'perfect little angel'-" There was too much bitterness in the words for Crowley's liking. "-I've been more than a little rebellious. I feel I should say what I've been thinking for millennia, Crowley," he pleaded.

The pause was long enough he knew he could speak. Still, Crowley hesitated. Six thousand years of not speaking and keeping it hidden away formed comfortable habits. When it bled through, when he pushed, it was like a leak in the walls. One of them, usually Aziraphale, had to dam it up. Even when they pleaded for the other's attention with some scheme neither of them had to plan so dramatically, they reined in their emotions as if nothing had occurred at all.

This was Aziraphale putting a pickax to the walls. It was a full, strong swing at it. He was handing the pickax over to Crowley and the weight of it dragged at the demon. The spark of hope made him physically flinch. This hurt, on top of the recent pain swimming to the surface of his memories, could fold him in half.

Crowley was trying to rein it in as if nothing had occurred it all, but Aziraphale had rejected that. He was demanding honesty. Crowley was too weak to deny him.

Clearing his throat, he kept up at least the physical pretense of being casual. He swirled a hand in the air to brush aside his own unease. "I haven't been subtle, angel. Always wanted to be friends. Always wanted to be around you. You pushed. I pushed back." It was just vague enough to be comfortable.

"You came back to me. Every time. I always liked that, Crowley," the angel gushed, pleasure shining in his eyes. It was the pleasure that Crowley had seen when he'd freed him from the Bastille, when he'd miracled paintball stains from his coat, and when he'd just been around to say hello.

His brain froze as Aziraphale made a happy noise and rose from his chair, eyes stuck on the angel's hands as they pressed at his pants legs. Those legs moved toward him, and it was only when they stopped in front of him that his brain restarted.

Trailing from his legs to his face, Crowley's eyes were wide and naked with longing. Aziraphale's expression was touched by that small, pleased smile, crow's feet at the corners of his eyes as the happiness brushed them. "Well, my dear, I think if anyone asks we could call ourselves boyfriends, but I think we both agree it's something more, yes?"

"Six thousand years more," Crowley rasped. He couldn't move. He felt poised on the edge of something with a long drop underneath him. It was the opposite of vaguely sauntering downwards. It was a conscious choice.

Aziraphale lowered himself, a hand on the couch edge near Crowley for balance as he dropped one knee at a time. He knelt before the demon, still smiling with those beautiful eyes focused on the demon. "Crowley, do you mind terribly if I take your hands in mine? Not a handshake. We've done those. They're nice. I want a proper handhold." He was choosing his words carefully, and Crowley would've been insulted if he wasn't too grateful for it.

Crowley was in shocked silence as his lips parted. He straightened from his recline, nodding fast as he placed his hands on his stomach, flipping them over palm up. He licked his lips. "Whatever you want, angel. We can take it slow."

"Slow?" Aziraphale's hands slid onto his own, the fingers closing to encircle the back of his hands. He lifted them and brought them close to his chest in reverent motion. "We've gone quite slow enough, out of necessity, I think. We don't have to now, do we?" His lips pressed upwards on one side more than the other.

That was a faint smirk on the angel's lips, barely there and only noticed because they were so close. Crowley saw it, but he had no idea how to respond to it.

"Ngk. Well, er, of course. I mean, if you want to go a little faster..." His eyes were locked on their joined hands, watching the fingers skim over his skin with a kind of detached fascination. He could still be dreaming, but it was tipping toward reality. He just couldn't be sure.

"Oh, it's not just my decision. It's our decision. Would you mind if I kissed your hands, Crowley?"

Yellow eyes went wide, snapping his gaze up to Aziraphale's face. The smirk was gone, only a pure and honest smile. It made Crowley feel adored. The sensation slunk through him, settled into the pit of his stomach, and didn't know If it wanted to get comfortable or not. He wouldn’t deny he wanted to feel adored by the angel more than anything. He could admit it inside, where no one else could notice it. He wanted to be adored and so much more.

Crowley's own hands felt like they were shaking, only held steady by the firm grip of the angel. "I don't mind," he whispered.

The motion was simple. Still, Crowley felt every inch of it. Warm hands enclosed his own, and the backs of his hands were kissed. Each press of lips made his heart seize up in his chest as if it wanted to explode. He exhaled all the air in his lungs with a shudder.

"I feel like-" Aziraphale's breath ghosted over his skin. Shaking his head, he aborted what he had been going to say, eyes soft as he gazed at Crowley. "You're very tense, my dear. Am I too late to say all this, do all this?" His voice was tremulous.

"Too late?" he queried, lost all over again in the path the conversation was taking. "Only a couple days ago I thought you were gone." That was a strained sentence in the air, lingering like smoke from a cigarette. "Might be processing, angel."

It felt honest. Aziraphale nodded, a patient understanding in his expression that Crowley craved and was annoyed by craving at the same time. "Of course. Crowley, I am sorry if this is all sudden for you. I rather have been thinking about it for a while now. I thought you might initiate things, and then I thought that was silly. You've been waiting for me to be ready for centuries."

Crowley expected the angel would be fidgeting by now. He tended to do that when he was pressed, asked too many questions, usually pertaining to their relationship or Heaven's plans. His hands were steady holding his own. The demon inhaled, shaking his head, feeling heat pricking at the corners of his eyes.

He wanted this to be true. His mouth felt dry as he pushed words out. He'd wanted to say them for a long time, and now that he could, now that this might be real, the flipping of his stomach made them stick in his throat. "I understood, angel. I was pissed, upset, but I understood. This doesn't feel real. That's why I'm…. If I do this, it's going to be fast. Not good at hol-holding back." 

Aziraphale brought Crowley's hands back to his face and pressed his cheek against them. He rubbed the soft skin there against his knuckles. It made the demon's heart jump as much as his words had. "Oh, I don't want either of us to hold back anymore. I want us to ask, of course, so we feel comfortable with each other. I want us to be okay if one of us wants to wait for a bit, but I want us to hold nothing back anymore, my dear. I think we've been suffering enough, don't you?"

Aziraphale's eyes were liquid blue, like the sea under a full moon, as they filled with tears. Crowley moved one of his hands, still caught in Aziraphale's grip, so he could run it under his eye. A tear spilled out and over his skin like a cool balm.

He could believe in this. "Yeah. Want to kiss you, angel. So much."

"Please, Crowley," Aziraphale implored.

They bent heads close, drawing their hands to the sides, still clasped, as their lips met chastely between them. It was slow, achingly sweet, and everything Crowley had dreamed. Usually, his dreams ended at the contact, leaving him sweating and hollow inside until he rolled back over to forget again.

This was no dream. Aziraphale's lips were warm, alive, pressing in closer. Crowley tilted his head, deepened the intimacy between them, and moaned. The feeling curled like gold from his lips, into his chest, and then curled around his feet, snakeskin and all.

When they parted, they were both smiling. Aziraphale's smile made the gold curl back into his chest and nestle there as if it planned to stay. They pressed their foreheads together, emotional walls crumbling. Six thousand years of debris would have to be shifted through, but against all odds, Crowley knew they would be hand in hand to resolve it together.


End file.
